Chapter 18
All eight contestants—Kay Lee, Colette, Sil, Cameron, Doc, Eli, Fonzie, and me—stand center stage. The speakers carry Miguel’s cheerful voice over us as he dutifully drags out the suspense in excruciatingly detail. The audience cheers the recaps, then gasps again at my fall. The stage vibrates under my feet with their every reaction.
I know I’ve lost.
My voice barely carried, even with the microphone. I had to cut out the leg lift, because I feared I might vomit. I don’t care. All I want is to get off of this stage so I can vomit.
The problem with live television is you don’t have enough time to run off the stage, vomit, and make it back before the camera goes live again.
Cramping waves squeeze my stomach. My legs shake. Gulping deep breaths and clenching my thighs won’t keep me upright much longer.
I pray for the show to end as Miguel explains to the at-home audience the secure voting system. No one is allowed to vote more than once. The envelope is delivered by secure courier and placed into the hands of someone chosen and vetted through the show. Blah. Blah. Blah.
Miguel says, “It’s the first time the trademarked system invented by our show’s producer Parker Lamb has been put to use.”
Díos. I don’t need the Wikipedia rundown on this mierda system; tell me I lost.
My trembling arms end in sweaty hands that clutch painfully at Sil’s on my right and Colette’s on my left. This is not a virus. It’s food poisoning. It feels like it.
“Death grip,” Colette whispers to me, and I relax my fingers.
Ay. Dios. Please let this end.
The Dance Your Bleep Off announcers banter back and forth with Miguel, making points about each performance. For mine, they note the music was the best part. Normally, I’d want to melt into the floor, but all caring has left my body.
As the mayor of San Juan is introduced and delivers the envelope, Miguel finally announces the vomiting is over—voting. The voting is over.
Sweat slides down my face and neck. The control spray in my hair has washed away, revealing my frizzy inheritance.
“We have a clear outcome,” Miquel says.
Gracias a Dios. There’s no more drama, no more drawing it out.
He moves toward me. “The contestant with the least number of votes is Yolanda Vasquez.”
I drop the hands of the other contestants and step forward. That small movement sends my stomach sloshing. Miguel places his arm across my shoulders, giving me an older-brother-like squeeze. I bite down on my tongue, hoping to distract my stomach from its intention.
Sweat drips into my eyes. I grimace-smile and nod as people in the audience boo the result. I can’t help but wonder how many of them voted for me. Each of the other contestants comes over and offer apologies and arm squeezes before leaving the stage. I look after them longingly.
When they’re gone, Miguel announces, “Join us Sunday when Yolanda Vasquez competes against Easton Blake for our first Last Stand. It’ll be a dance competition streamed live and decided by the Dance Your Bleep Off visiting celebrity judges.”
The audience erupts with applause. Even I, about to spew on this stage, have to admit that Parker has done an amazing job in tying the weekly workout themes—balance, creativity, strength, et cetera—to so many other popular reality shows by allowing those judges to play a part on the show.
“We’re clear!” a grip announces.
I rush off the stage, trying not to meet anyone’s eyes or wipe at the tears rimming my own.
I descend the metal stairs with careful steps, focusing on each drop of my flexible trainers. I’m surprised to see Easton waiting at the bottom.
He’s as beautiful and unruffled as I am sweaty and gross. “You lost focus,” he says. Eyebrows drawn together. Gaze troubled. “Is your leg okay?”
My feet hit the ground. “Bathroom,” I manage.
His eyebrows go up. He takes a good look at my face, grabs my forearm, and gently leads me away.
We make our way past the other contestants and crew with Easton serving as a shield. He glares at Néstor when he draws near, causing the man to stop and take a step back.
My gratitude can’t be expressed in words. Mostly because I don’t dare open my mouth. Leading me through a hallway I’ve not been to before, he takes me into a large library office and throws open the door to a spacious bathroom with a sitting area.
I burst inside and rush toward the toilet tucked in a corner behind a half wall.
I don’t make it. Vomit coats the floor and my feet before I fall to my knees and retch into the porcelain bowl.
Draped with my head resting against my forearm, my stomach lets lose again and again. I’m mildly aware of Easton grabbing towels and cleaning up. His warm hand resting gently against my back, making light circles, before lifting off. Him smoothing my hair from my face.
Incalculable moments later, I have nothing left to give. A wet cloth dabs lightly at my mouth. I open my eyes to Easton.
“Yolanda,” he says quietly, “The show’s doctor is here. Mind if she takes a look at you?”
I nod, then close my eyes.
A moment later, a woman with pale skin, large forehead, and deep-set brown eyes is beside me with a stethoscope to my back.
She listens for a moment, then checks my eyes and takes my temperature. She asks me a few questions: what I’ve eaten, have I taken anything.
I find the last offensive but am too exhausted to complain.
She finishes with, “It’s likely food poisoning. Rest is best.”
“Should she go to the hospital?” Easton asks.
Packing away her stethoscope, the physician doesn’t seem to hear.
Since I can’t think of a worse suggestion, I answer before Easton can ask again. “No. I want to go home. My brother…”
“He went to get your car,” Easton says. “I had the crew make space out front for him.”
I blink up at him. There’s not enough room for our car with all the production stuff, so after dropping me off today, Mateo had to park a mile away. It’s sweet that Easton had the crew make a space for his car. And that he helped me. And…
After-sickness emotion, a reflex to all that vulnerability, begins to overwhelm me with a sweep of gratitude and sadness. Tears gather in my eyes. Sniffling, I glance away.
“I’ll let Parker know you’ve decided to go home,” the physician says, picking up her medical bag.
She disappears through the doorway. And, for the first time, it all feels really real. The cold floor under me. The lingering odor of sick. Easton’s empathetic gaze. My heart sinks. The hard truth perches on my shoulders, heavy and sharp, like the unrelenting claws of a dragon. “I let everyone down. All of Puerto Rico.”
“No,” Easton snaps. He steps forward, cups my chin, traces one long finger softly against my cheek. “You’re not doing that to yourself. You would’ve been perfect. If not for…” He drops his hand. “Whatever made you sick.”
I see him bite down on his words or emotions. See the muscle in his jaw tic before he points behind him to the sitting area. “Colette brought your backpack from the green room. There’s a change of clothes. Do you need help to stand?”
I bob my head weakly, something resembling a nod.
Easton grasps me under both elbows and easily lifts me to my feet.
“Thanks.” I spot my backpack on one of the chairs and my fancy water bottle on the table between them.
My stomach cramps.
Easton catches the direction of my gaze. “Shit. Sorry. Let me get you your water.”
I heave away, stumble back and vomit stomach acid and spit into the toilet. Heat washes over my body. I gasp hot and loud into the toilet.
“Take this.” Easton hands me a damp towel.
I wipe my mouth and hold it to my trembling lips. “Can water make a person sick?” I reach for him.
Helping me back to my feet, he mutters something I don’t catch. His gaze drapes over me like a blue sky, incomprehensibly vast. “Why?”
“Titi always said your stomach tells you what made you sick. I never want to drink from that bottle again.”
Clouds move across those open skies. “All the bottles were filled from the same source, and no one else on the show is sick.”
“Then it must have been something I ate earlier.”
“You ate what I ate,” Mateo says, hulking in the doorway, still wearing the skintight, sleeveless Puerto Rican flag shirt Haydée designed. “We had dinner with our familia. I’ve already checked with Haydée and Tía; no one else is sick.”
“That’s so odd.” I look down, noticing Easton supporting me by my forearm. His large palm is warm against my elbow. He’s holding me up like I did for him that long ago day.
He notices me noticing.
Our gazes collide.
Flinching at whatever he sees, Easton drops his hold and steps away.
“More like suspicious,” Mateo grunts. “Like having your car mysteriously run out of gas and both your and my car tires slashed, making us late.”
Easton’s lips curl. His nostrils flare. “Are you suggesting sabotage?”
“Vandals happen,” I say, staggering forward with steps as shaky as a newborn lamb. The last thing I want is Easton making a fuss to Parker over coincidences.
Easton’s eyebrows go up at my dismissal. His gaze sharpens. “Yolanda?—”
“Can you give me a minute? Please.” I look down at the mess that is my outfit, then at the door. “I need to change.”
Jawline as taut as a bow about to release, Easton holds archer-still for three beats before breaking into action. Then, like an arrow seeking prey, he slices through the doorway.
Ay. That could’ve gone better.
Mateo helps me to an empty fluffy white seat. “Need help to change?”
I reach for my bag on the seat next to me and drag it into my lap. “No. I can do it.”
He turns as if to go, stops, looks down at me, and whispers, “I know something.” His tone suggests it’s a good thing.
“Que?”
“I overheard Parker making plans for The Last Stand. She had separate dance challenges set up, but when you lost, she went wild getting a different dance routine together.”
“What kind?” I can use all the help I can get to stay on this show, even if it’s due to Mateo overhearing. Mateo has a way of becoming so quiet and calm that he’s easy to miss. An incredible, almost magical feat, considering the size of him.
He lifts the cross necklace hidden beneath the color of his shirt, kisses it, and says, “It’s going to be a salsa.”
A weak smile forms on my shaky lips. Salsa is the first dance form I ever learned. Mami taught me. I feel her here now, as if she has her hand on my shoulder saying, “You got this, mija. Estoy aquí. I’m here.”
My aching throat feels tight with hope. I look to the heavens and whisper, “I won’t let you down, Mami. Te prometo.”